On the Wheel

by Timandra Whitecastle

  “Bashan!” Diaz called out from beside her.

  The prince turned his head. His dead eyes rested on Diaz for a moment. If there was a flicker of recognition, Nora didn’t see it. What she saw was Bashan’s sword hand rising for one more slash.

  No.

  She flew forward and caught the Blade’s destructive fire again, a streak of blue forming a thin shield around her as she huddled with Diaz in a small cocoon within the blinding heat while the flames licked at them from all sides. Her hands burned. First they glowed orange like iron ready for the hammer, then the white of the furnace, then a purer white like the cold gleam of starlight, illuminating her whole arms so that she could see the shadow of her bone, the red of her veins, her blood coursing crimson. The fury etched its pattern into her, cracking her flesh in black tears as though she were made of glass, melting and smelting, sealing her flesh together even as it burst apart. She knew only pain, though, and the strong currents of the torrent of destruction around her, around them both.

  Diaz stood by her side, wrapped in the roar of the flames. He had caught her shoulder and pushed against her to stop her from falling. Maybe she was screaming, maybe they both were. The flames drowned out any sound. Nora glanced over her shoulder. Diaz’s eyes—they were like twin suns, the afterimage of the black turned white. She closed her own eyes and gritted her teeth, struggling against the onslaught. Burning up together in the white fire of the Living Blade. Well. Let it come. Let the fire sear through her, rending muscle and skin, bone and marrow, piercing her to her core. Scorching her heart until the pain grew unbearable and suddenly the white-hot fire was replaced with darkness and a touch of cold.

  And in that instant, the fire and the fury died around them.

  Her hand fell to her side, her arm a wreckage.

  It was all she saw before the silence took her.

  Chapter 8

  Afterward there was pain. A lot of pain. Layers of it to pull away, to gradually climb out of its clutches. Always climbing out of the cistern of mire. Snippets of scenes jutted through her memory, but they wouldn’t fit together. Fire, she remembered. The Blade. Bashan’s face, like a mask. Diaz’s eyes. The stench of burned flesh overpowered the stench of death, the salty taste of vomit.

  Overlapping those familiar memories she also saw her fists clamped tightly around the neck of a beautiful woman, turned ugly by the bulging veins on her red face, her bloodshot eyes finally showing only white. The blue body of a newborn infant, lying still between Nora’s blood-smeared thighs. So quiet, no noise erupting in protest as it was devoured by a silver snake. She remembered dust, rising in a spiral high into the night to form stars of cold blue light. Heat. And blood. Lots of blood. Its taste making her retch. Again and again. Above all, she heard Owen’s voice droning on and on. He was monologuing again, talking about water perhaps, the ocean, salt in her eyes.

  Take a deep breath, Nora.

  “Nora?”

  The pain returned when she cracked an eye open. She whimpered. A warm hand rested on her forehead, only to be replaced by a cool, wet rag. She was burning still. She could feel it. She would burn up like Shade, and she deserved it.

  “Kill me, please,” her voice whispered, pushing the words past her raw throat.

  “No,” a different voice answered, deep, rough.

  Her ears pricked. She knew that voice. Taking a deep breath, she felt the air hot in her nostrils. Her nose twitched, detecting a familiar scent, nearly shoved out of conscious thought between the charred smell of smoke and grilled meat. Rosemary. As though she were wrapped in animal fur, the whiff of the herb carried her mind away to a place, warm and safe and free from pain. At least for a while.

  She opened her eyes and sat up, grass tickling the soles of her bare feet.

  “The Plains?”

  How did she get here? Red light shone down on the empty grasslands from a broken moon. She turned and saw Diaz sitting cross-legged by a fire, its flames a shade of sickly green, sipping his tea, holding out a steaming cup.

  “This is a dream,” she said, walking toward him, never able to close the distance.

  “Is it?” he asked and with a flicker turned into Bashan. “Look around you. This place is dying. Soon all that you are will be part of us, and you will remember, but not enough to know who you are. Only enough to despair of what you have forgotten.”

  “Who are you?” Nora shook her head. “Diaz?”

  Queen Suranna held out a steaming cup. She smiled.

  “Owen. He is fighting the inevitable. For you. For you to become everything he believes you could be. But what could something like you possibly ever be? Only a shadow, Noraya.”

  Her smiled lingered even as the wind scattered the ashes of her body.

  Owen held out a steaming cup.

  “It’s getting late. You shouldn’t be here. You need to go now.”

  “I’m not going now that I’ve found you. Unless you come with me.”

  She reached out for his hand.

  “Owen? Please. Don’t do this to me again.”

  He shook his head.

  “Go now.”

  “I’m not leaving without you!”

  He tipped the scalding hot tea over her outstretched palm. And the pain woke her. For real, this time. She twisted and groaned, her brain finally making sense of what her eyes were telling her. She was hanging over Diaz’s shoulder like a sack, one arm dangling down his back. She bumped into consciousness, a rack of new pain washing through her with every jolt. Bile dribbled out of the corner of her cracked lips, mixing with blood.

  Her arm.

  It was burned to a crisp, her fingertips charcoal black, little more than nubs of bone wrapped with tendons, raw flesh crisscrossing with the patterns of flame up her charred forearm, the torn skin receding, leaving patches of angry red.

  She jerked her head up and shrieked.

  Diaz halted and gently lowered her to the snow-covered ground. He looked ahead, scanning the horizon, before looking down at her, his face unreadable in the gray morning light. He pulled his dagger out and rested it against her throat. She tried raising her hands, but they refused service, one hooked and trembling, with blackened claws.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “We are about three days southeast of what remains of the Shrine of Hin.” He winced, took a sip from his waterskin. “Who are you this time?”

  His eyes were hard on her, and she wondered what had happened while she had been—well, had she been unconscious? Had he said “this time”? She swallowed dryly.

  “I’m Nora.”

  His eyes narrowed, and his dagger pressed deeper into her skin.

  “Prove it.”

  She thought about that. How? How could she show him she was Nora and not—not what? Owen? That thing that Owen had become? The Blade and its babel of voices?

  “I can’t.” She spoke through clenched teeth, arcing her back. Each word hurt as it made its languorous way from her mind past her tongue.

  Diaz shook his head and looked down, drawing a shuddering breath. His blade departed from between them.

  “You left with Shade.” He looked again to the horizon, one hand touching the back of his head. “Where is he now?”

  “He’s gone,” she croaked. A hot stab of guilt in the gut made her squirm.

  Diaz’s eyebrows rose high. “He’s dead? How?”

  She closed her eyes.

  “I—we…”

  “Were you attacked?”

  “No.” Nora winced at the memory of Shade’s burned skin. “Yes.”

  “Which then?”

  “I—I attacked. I killed him. By accident.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, disgusted with herself. Don’t fucking cry now.

  But her eyes were moist already. She had killed Shade. All those months traveling from Shinar back to the north together, all the planning and crazy schemes with Owen over how best to save Shade from a cruel fate, how to keep him alive and unhurt. It had all been for nothing. If she
hadn’t been with him—but she’d had no choice. She had been unconscious when he carried her away after Bashan had struck at her with the Blade.

  But that didn’t stop her from hurting herself over his death.

  She saw Shade’s burned body lying forlornly in the sand where she had left it, discarded it. Used him up and walked away. Gods, she was no better than Bashan.

  A touch on her wrist made her look up.

  “It was the Blade through you, yes?” Diaz. Being helpful again. So understanding. She wanted to punch him for it. And at the same time, she wanted him cradle her in his arms so that she could weep. Finally. And then sleep. Instead—

  “I killed him, Diaz,” she snarled. “It’s my fault. What the fuck does it matter whether the Blade was influencing me?” She rolled onto her side and tried to push herself up, only to flop back down. That hurt, too.

  “What matters is what you choose to believe.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  His mouth snapped shut, and he rose. She managed to push herself up, too, nearly throwing up with the effort of sitting upright. Sweat ran down her neck, and she sat shivering, but not from the cold. Behind her, she heard Diaz intone the ritual burial words. A soft litany. For Shade. He spoke them to the wind, a prayer to Lara, to guide the departed’s feet on the silent road, to aid his journey, make it swift, and to hold him in Her embrace when he arrived, in place of all those in whose arms he could no longer lie.

  “Hear, O Dark One, the outcries of those mourning. Do pay attention to their prayers. From the ends of the earth, all creation cries out to you when their hearts give out and despair. Catch our tears in your dreadful thirst, Lady, for all mankind does fear you and your darkness. Hear my voice as I plead in the name of Shade Padarn.”

  Here the ritual ended. And for a while Diaz remained silent. Nora hugged her legs, biting her lip as the tears ran freely down her face.

  “Show us favor, Dark One, as you keep track of our wandering.” Another prayer. A beseeching one. He whispered the words, as though he was making room for Nora to pretend she hadn’t heard them. Or maybe he thought she already slept? “When we grow afraid, may we put our trust in you. As we tread your roadways, collect our tears in your waterskin, record them in your book, that we may never be forgotten. Warrior am I, in you I put my trust. Bound by my vows to you, O Goddess, I pay in blood. I am not afraid. For you can rescue me from death, only to pull me into your embrace. I am not afraid, so I walk before you in the land of the living.”

  I am not afraid, she told herself over and over as she fell asleep despite the pain, inside and out. Go on, Lara. Claim me as your own. Pull me into your embrace. I am not afraid, bitch.

  * * *

  For days they traveled together, following the curves of a semi-frozen creek southeast, toward the Crest Mountains. She saw their peaks rise in the blue distance. The first day she had been stubborn and insisted on walking herself. But she had soon weakened, stumbling, after only an hour or two. When Diaz had wordlessly put her arm across his broad shoulders, it came as too much relief to protest. Much. And when she couldn’t go any farther, he had offered to carry her again. But she waved him off, although desiring rest and very aware that they would make it to the Temple of the Wind much faster if she’d just let him toss her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He offered her his arm and she leaned on him, ever onward, ever forward, labored breath, aching muscles. From sunrise to sunset. The weight of a weary path upon her.

  Occasionally, she exhaled, concentrated on her surroundings, and reached out to a sparkling blue mote flickering within her grasp. But when she touched it, it stung. Badly. She grimaced and shook her fingers free of the pain. The magic had soured. Or maybe she had simply used up too much of it at the shrine. She saw Diaz glance over with a questioning look. But he never asked.

  He was stoic as ever, and by the end of their first week, his silence crawled under her skin.

  “Where are we even going?” she asked as they sat close to each other before a wispy fire, swaddled in his sleeping furs. “I assumed to the Temple of the Wind to recuperate?”

  “No.” Diaz shook his head.

  “Then where? Bashan’s secret hideout? He’s still alive, right? Still got the Blade after what happened at the shrine?”

  “You don’t remember?” Diaz asked after a moment. “He fell when you fell. Alive, yes, but was he Bashan? I’m not sure. I did not stay to find out who he would be when he woke.”

  Nora shuddered at the thought. Bashan’s voice in her head, Owen’s voice in her head—the boundaries of who she was blurred.

  She cocked her head. “Why are you here?”

  “Shouldn’t I be?” He stared into the flames.

  “I don’t know, Diaz.” She ran a hand through her hair. It was getting longer and fell before her eyes. She pushed a strand behind her ear. “Why aren’t you in Wighthold with your father and your people, for example?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Gimmstanhol does not translate to Wighthold.”

  “It’s way easier to pronounce. Don’t avoid the question.” She looked at his sharp profile in the gathering gloom. Snowflakes clustered in his hair, falling on his cinnamon skin. She envied them their light touch.

  He snorted.

  “I’m not sure what Owen intended to happen, whether he knew how…confused you would be. But I do realize it is a great gift, a great power. You have thwarted Bashan, Nora, stopped the Blade’s force. It has never been heard of before. Yet…you could have died. By all means, you should have.”

  “But I didn’t. Whatever Owen intended, it worked.”

  “And if it hadn’t?” He turned to face her, waiting for her reaction.

  “It would’ve been my fucking problem then, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s not the way I see it.”

  Oh.

  She let that sink in for a moment.

  “I can’t do much with that power, though, can I?” She held up her blackened, withered hand and studied the damage. She should have died days ago. Gods knew, the pain sometimes made her wish she had. As she stared at her ruined arm, she thought she could see glimpses of blue scatter along the cracks in her skin, as though her veins pulsed with silver light. She covered it with her good hand. “I can only protect myself from being torn into pieces, and only just.”

  “You protected me, too.”

  “Yeah, but you’re just one person, Diaz. I couldn’t shield an entire city. I can’t ward off destruction from the entire world.”

  “Just one person?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “That is sometimes enough.”

  She laughed without humor. That wasn’t her experience. Every time she had set out to save even one person, she always ended up in deeper trouble. First on the Ridge, then later when she had tried to protect Shade only to end up being the one who…She frowned at him quizzically. Surely he wasn’t talking about…

  “Is that why you let Owen sacrifice himself? Because you thought he was protecting me?”

  He took a deep breath and then said nothing for a long time.

  “Why, Diaz?” It sounded harsher than she meant it. But it moved him to speak.

  “Because, whatever else Owen was planning, I could see he loved you. And I didn’t want to be the one to dictate how he should express his love.”

  She wished she could wipe away the folds around the corners of his lips, drawn down in disapproval. In disgust. At himself.

  “Are we still talking about Owen? Because I get the feeling we’re not. What are you saying, exactly?” She squeezed the words past the lump in her throat.

  “I’m saying,” Diaz said slowly, eyes locked on hers. “I need you. More than I would like.”

  Nora drew back. She was speechless, dazed by the impact of his words. I need you. The fingers of her hand fanned out against her breastbone; she could feel the thud of her racing heart.

  He spoke no more, only observed her reaction to his expressed feelings, studying
her face in compassionate silence. She strove for composure, ease of mind, quickness of tongue and wit—but nothing came. He looked serious, as usual. She was sure he hadn’t been joking. Mostly sure. Maybe he was teasing? But why would he ever? Should she laugh? Or throw herself into his arms? Or both? Instead, she did nothing, gave no answer, and the minutes dragged on, the wind picking up around them, whipping the small flames to and fro.

  “Diaz, I—”

  “It’s late. You don’t need to say anything in response just now. I don’t expect you to. Get some rest. We can talk more tomorrow.”

  Still stunned, Nora settled down among the furs, wondering whether she should stage an explosion of anger. It was always there, bubbling away just under the surface. She could tap into it with ease and hurl the words “patronizing” and “condescending” around, maybe feel slightly better for doing so. In the end, she simply rested, and closed her eyes, and fell asleep thinking of all the things she could have said in reply.

  * * *

  Diaz set a pace the next day that drained her so much she couldn’t speak, let alone think of more than not stumbling. He hurried them through their meager breakfast, radiating impatience as she worked away the stiffness from the dull pain in her joints. Weariness settled on her as they trekked through the snow in silence, making their way toward a darker line on the eastern horizon, a forest on the foot of the Crest Mountains, Diaz explained.

  When she collapsed the first time, it wasn’t even midday yet.

  “Why are we in such a hurry?” She grimaced, lifting the already half-empty waterskin to her lips. “Someone following us?”

  He had remained standing and now looked down at her. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, a hint of amusement playing on his face.

  “Possibly. Although maybe I’m simply eager to get you into a bed.”

  She choked, inhaling her sip of water instead of swallowing it, and ended up coughing and spluttering, eyes watering. He thumped her on the back with alarm. When she raised her wet face to him in a winded effort to speak, he nodded gravely.